“Don’t know; can’t see.”
“Never mind, pitch it in and let’s go, only don’t run.”
“It would be too bad,” said Tom, laughing.
“Never mind—we’ll buy him some more powder. In with it.”
“No,” said Tom, hesitating, though the trick was his suggestion.
Dick snatched the powder-horn from his companion, gave a hasty glance at the workshop, from which came the clink of pincers, and pitched the horn right into the middle of the blaze.
Chip gave a sharp bark, and dashed after it, but stopped short, growling as he felt the heat, and then went on barking furiously, while the two boys walked off toward the rough road as fast as they could, soon to be beyond the reach of the wheelwright’s explosion of anger, for they regretted not being able to stop and see the blow-up.
“What’s your Chip barking at?” said the wheelwright, as the two men walked out, armed with great iron pincers, the wheelwright holding a pair in each hand. “What is it, Chip?”
The dog kept on barking furiously, and making little charges at the fire.
“There’s summat there,” said Dave in a low harsh voice. “Where’s they boys?”